“Of course your worships will take bail for Sir Francis?” said Mr. Rubiny, at the close of the proceedings.

Bail!  The bench looked at one another.

“Your worships will not refuse it—­a gentleman in Sir Francis Levison’s position!”

The bench thought they never had so insolent an application made to them.  Bail for him!—­on this charge!  No; not if the lord chancellor himself came down to offer it.

Mr. Otway Bethel, conscious, probably, that nobody would offer bail for him, not even the colonel, did not ask the bench to take it.  So the two were fully committed to take their trial for the “Wilful murder, otherwise the killing and slaying of George Hallijohn;” and before night would be on their road to the county prison at Lynneborough.

And that vain, ill-starred Afy!  What of her?  Well, Afy had retreated to the witness-room again, after giving evidence, and there she remained to the close, agreeably occupied in a mental debate.  What would they make out from her admission regarding her sojourn in London and the morning calls?  How would that precious West Lynne construe it?  She did not much care; she would brave it out, and assail them with towering indignation, did any dare to cast a stone at her.

Such was her final decision, arrived at just as the proceedings terminated.  Afy was right glad to remain where she was, till some of the bustle had gone.

“How was it ended?” asked she of Mr. Ball, who, being a bachelor, was ever regarded with much graciousness by Afy, for she kept her eyes open to contingencies; although Mr. Joe Jiffin was held in reserve.

“They are both committed for wilful murder—­off to Lynneborough within an hour!”

Afy’s color rose.  “What a shame!  To commit two innocent men upon such a charge.”

“I can tell you what, Miss Afy, the sooner you disabuse your mind of that prejudice, the better.  Levison has been as good as proved guilty to-day; but if proof were wanting, he and Bethel have criminated each other.  ‘When rogues fall out, honest men get their own.’  Not that I can quite fathom Bethel’s share in the exploit, though I can pretty well guess at it.  And, in proving themselves guilty they have proved the innocence of Richard Hare.”

Afy’s face was changing to whiteness; her confident air to one of dread; her vanity to humiliation.

“It—­can’t—­be—­true!” she gasped.

“It’s true enough.  The part you have hitherto ascribed to Thorn, was enacted by Richard Hare.  He heard the shot from his place in the wood, and saw Thorn run, ghastly, trembling, horrified, from his wicked work.  Believe me, it was Thorn who killed your father.”

Afy grew cold as she listened.  That one awful moment, when conviction that his words were true, forced itself upon her, was enough to sober her for a whole lifetime. Thorn! Her sight failed; her head reeled; her very heart turned to sickness.  One struggling cry of pain; and, for the second time that day, Afy Hallijohn fell forward in a fainting fit.